The Palace of Illusions (26 page)

“I do it!” Maya said. A gap gleamed between his crooked teeth as his lips pulled back in a grin. “I give you more: floors looking like rivers, waterfalls looking like walls. Doorsteps all glittery like melted ice. Only wise people see through Maya's truth. But few so wise! All cry: How great are royal Pandavas to live in such palace! How great Maya, maker of palace! But first you must give me right name for it.”

My husbands argued. Yudhisthir wanted to name the palace after their dead father, but the others didn't share his filial piety for a
man they didn't remember. Arjun wanted to name it in honor of Shiva, god of the hunt, his favorite deity. Nakul suggested we should call it Indrapuri, because wasn't it going to be a palace fit for the king-god? Sahadev feared that that would be too prideful.

“What does Panchaali think?” Bheem asked.

I looked at Maya. His fleck-brown eyes glittered. Later I'd wonder, was it malice I'd glimpsed in them? Along with gratitude, he must have harbored rage and sorrow, his home reduced to cinders around him, his companions dead or scattered forever.

He inclined his head as though he knew what I was thinking and approved of it. But perhaps it was he who sent the words into my mind.

If foreboding flew over me on scorched wings, crying for its dead mate, I didn't hear. I smiled with sudden elation, thinking, This is what I've been waiting for all my life!

I said, “This creation of yours that's going to be the envy of every king in Bharat—we'll call it the Palace of Illusions.”

Maya outdid himself as he built. He magnified everything my husbands wanted a hundredfold, and over it all he laid a patina of magic so things shifted strangely, making the palace new each day even for us who lived there. There were corridors lighted only by the glow of gems, and assembly halls so filled with flowering trees that even after hours at council one felt as though one had been relaxing in a garden. Almost every room had a pool with scented water. Not all his magic was benign, though. Early in our stay, before we got used to looking at things a certain way, we bumped into walls built of crystal so clear that they were transparent, or tried vainly to open windows that were painted on. Several times we stepped into pools that were disguised as stretches of marble flooring
and ruined our elaborate court attire. At those times I thought I heard Maya's disembodied, mocking laughter. But it all added to the allure of this palace that was truly like no other.

On the day the palace was done, Maya took Arjun aside.

“You save Maya life,” he said, “so I give you warning. Live in palace. Enjoy. But not invite anyone to come see.”

My husbands pondered over the cryptic words. What did Maya mean? Was it a trick? Had he slipped a curse into the foundations as he built them? Asuras were not to be trusted—everyone knew that. Still, they were reluctant to take him seriously. They'd waited so long for a place they could call home, a setting that proclaimed their worth. (How well I understood that craving!) They yearned to show it off—to friends and enemies both. (So did I, though only one man came to my mind.)

But Krishna said, “Maya is right. Everyone who sees this palace will want it for himself. Envy is dangerous. You'll have to deal with it eventually—but why call it down on yourself before its time?”

We didn't like what Krishna said, but we trusted his wisdom. So, reluctantly, we cancelled the grand celebration we'd planned. No doubt some people spoke ill of us, wondering at our inhospitality. (This distressed Yudhisthir; opinions were important to him.) Still, those who loved us came to visit anyway, even without an invitation, and they returned home with such amazing stories that others followed. Many stayed on, for Yudhisthir was a just and kind ruler. Soon a prosperous city grew up around Khandav. People called it Indra Prastha—that's how impressive it was. Minstrels began to make up songs about the unparalleled grandeur of the Pandava court. Slowly, the warnings we'd been given—by Maya, by Krishna, by Vyasa long ago—retreated into the lightless crevices of memory.

These were good years for me. I loved my palace, and in return I felt its warmth embracing me as though it were alive. Some of its serenity seeped into me, some wisdom, so that I learned to be happy with my lot in the world. (And now that I had such a palace, how could I be otherwise?) I took my place beside each of my husbands at the proper moment, and saw our pairings as movements in an elaborate dance. I saw my husbands, too, differently. They were a unit together, five fingers that complemented each other to make up a powerful hand—a hand that would protect me if the need arose. A hand that had gifted me this beautiful palace. Wasn't that sufficient to be thankful for?

My husbands, too, learned to appreciate my strengths. We were all surprised to discover that I had a good eye for matters of governance. More and more, Yudhisthir began to ask my advice when a tricky judgment had to be delivered. And I, having learned more of the workings of women's power, was careful to offer my opinion only in private, deferring to him always in front of others.

These were the years when I gave birth to my five sons, one from each husband: Prativindhya, Sutasoma, Srutakarman, Sata-neeka, and Srutasena. (Their names were chosen by Yudhisthir, who favored hefty, polysyllabic appellations. Sometimes, when I was flustered by the children's clamoring, I'd get them confused.) I loved the boys dearly, but I wasn't particularly maternal. Or perhaps my energies were used up in being a wife five times over, and a queen besides. Fortunately, Dhai Ma, whom I'd rescued from Kunti's tyrant grasp, was more than happy to take them off my hands. She chased after them day and night, regaling them with invectives, but in truth she was far more indulgent with them than she'd ever been with me—a fact that they took full advantage of.

Dhri, who was busy helping my aging and increasingly cantankerous father rule his kingdom, visited me whenever he could.
Here, for a while, he could set aside his cares as he hunted and rode and argued boisterously with my husbands about gaming strategies, or wrestled with my boys and showered them with too many gifts, or strolled with me in the gardens that were my delight. Once, when we were by ourselves, he praised me for the way I handled my unconventional domestic situation.

“I didn't think you could have done it,” he said. “You were so prickly about little things, always ready to rebel. Now you're truly a queen!”

I smiled. “If I am, I owe it to my palace.”

When I repeated this to Krishna, he frowned. “Don't be so attached to what is, after all, no more than stone and metal and asura sleight of hand. All things in this world change and pass away— some after many years, some overnight. Appreciate the Palace of Illusions, by all means. But if you identify so deeply with it, you set yourself up for sorrow.”

Out of my fondness for him, I didn't argue. But inside I knew I had nothing to fear. Maya had promised us that no human would be able to harm our palace, no natural disaster lay it low. No one could wrest it from us. As long as we—or our descendants—lived in it, it was indestructible, and in turn, it would protect us.

It was as close to immortality as I could imagine—and enough to satisfy me.

I dreaded bringing Kunti to my palace and made excuses to delay it as long as possible. But finally she arrived, stepping from the carriage with an elaborate groan and disapproval stitched onto her prim, pursed lips.

As my husbands guided her through the palace, I steeled myself for criticism. But the palace must have worked its magic on her, for
after a few superficial complaints she fell silent, and a childlike look of wonder came into her eyes. Once or twice I heard her laugh in delight as Sahadev or Nakul—strangely, they who were not born of her were her favorites—explained one of Maya's illusions to her. And though she never complimented me on the planning of the palace, her pleasure in it melted some of the aversion that had encrusted my heart for so long.

Kunti was a wise woman—wiser than me, if truth were told. In those first days, her shrewd eyes examined much more than the curiosities in the palace. She saw that in this place, I was mistress. Where my husbands had once relied on her, they now depended on me. She could not disrupt this state of affairs without causing her sons serious unhappiness. Perhaps the palace laid its calming finger on her, making her realize that she loved them more than she resented me. Had we remained in Hastinapur, in her husband's palace, I am sure she would have fought me fiercely for control. But the Palace of Illusions was my domain, and she accepted this, spending her days in the cool, fragrant garden (for here it was always cool) listening to the bulbuls sing.

Or was she a better actress than I gave her credit for, biding her time, waiting for the mistakes she knew I'd make?

20

I didn't win all my battles. My husbands took other wives: Hidimba, Kali, Devika, Balandhara, Chitrangada, Ulupi, Karuna-mati. How naïve I'd been to think I could have prevented it! Sometimes there were political reasons, but mostly it was male desire. I retaliated by locking myself up in my quarters, refusing food, and throwing expensive objects at my husbands if they dared to approach me. My tantrums became almost as famous as Yudhisthir's righteousness, and over the years not a few songs were composed about Panchaali's jealousy.